


How the Light gets in

by everything_that_is_the_case



Category: History Boys (2006), History Boys - All Media Types, History Boys - Bennett
Genre: Depression, Fear of Death, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Implied Relationships, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Multi, Please Don't Hate Me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-24
Updated: 2019-04-24
Packaged: 2020-01-25 22:06:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18583507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/everything_that_is_the_case/pseuds/everything_that_is_the_case
Summary: A collection of obituaries are corrected by the boy's memories of their last moments.Title from the Ernest Hemingway quote 'We are all broken. That's how the light gets in,'





	How the Light gets in

**Author's Note:**

> I've been on holiday for the past two weeks (without my laptop - actual hell!) so I've not been able to write. I'm still working on the third chapter of Sweet As Cherry Wine (which will be coming soon) but I still wanted to post, so I remembered this little pre-written piece. So voila, enjoy what I think might be the saddest thing I've ever written. I nearly made myself cry writing Scripps' piece, because the last sentence gets me every time. And yes, I did the maths for their ages, and yes, these are real newspapers that I researched to see how it would work. 
> 
> "Take a writer away from his typewriter and all you have left is the sickness that started their writing in the first place,"  
> \- Charles Bukowski

 

_The Sheffield Telegraph_

Lieutenant James Lockwood

(1965-1993)

Lieutenant James Lockwood has died at the age of 28.

Killed in friendly fire, serving our king and country.

He leaves behind his family and friends, and an everlasting memory of the joy he always brought.

 

Lockwood’s last memories were of a sharp, stabbing pain ricocheting through his chest. The IV drip swung above his head, rattling loudly as the ambulance thundered on. He screamed in pain as they turned the corner and he rolled, jarring his shoulder. Blinding light shone into his eyes as it blurred, obscuring his vision. He could feel the blood dripping down his chest as they ripped open his shirt. His mouth filled with a metallic taste, making him choke as he bumped along the table. Every bone in his body screamed, pain firing his way round his body. His thoughts were disjointed and random, making him smile deliriously.

_I wonder what they would put in my obituary,_ he thought. _Jimmy Lockwood. Died for an Oxbridge education._ A seeping numbness filled his body and he stared at the ceiling as his eyesight blackened, and a strange bleeping noise echoed round his ears, accompanied by panicked shouts as he faded away.

 

_The Sheffield Telegraph_

David Posner

(1966-1994)

We send our love to the Posner’s after David’s untimely passing at the age of 28 .

He leaves behind his family, friends, and partner Donald.

His family ask for privacy and sympathy during these difficult times.

 

Posner dies in an ambulance too. His last memories were of a burning sensation choking the back of his throat as he lay there, his whole body shaking. He felt Don’s hand clasped in his. Hot heavy tears rolled down his face as the ambulance wailed above him. His whole body convulsed as he retched, sweating profusely. Scripps’ sobs rang in his ears, pain filled and horrified. Everything seemed foggy and distant. His breaths filled the ambulance, choking and ragged, forcing each breath out as he resisted the urge to pull off the mask covering his face. Pain rocketed around his stomach as he panted. He felt as if he was no longer himself, floating high above his body and watching himself die.

The pain started to fade as he became drowsier and drowsier, the world muting Scripps’ cries as he whispered his final breath.

_Yorkshire Evening Post_

Anthony Timms

(1966-2003)

Local entrepreneur Anthony Timms has passed away unexpectedly at the age of 38.

He leaves behind his two children and their mother, his ex-wife.

His family don’t wish to disclose his cause of death, but wish for him to be remembered as the beautiful, intelligent person he was.

 

Timms settled back onto the sofa, grinning as the adrenaline pumped through his veins. The sense of euphoria rushed through his body, exciting him and fascinating him, as it did every time it hit him. He relaxed and leant back, closing his eyes. A surprising pain ripped through his chest, making him groan uncomfortably. Sweat started to gather on his top lip. He opened his eyes and stared at his hand, watching it tremble vigorously. He moaned, shifting around to try and rid himself of the agony in his chest. He felt himself start to twist and turn, shaking as he froze, unutterable, incoherent noises escaping his lips. The last thing he remembered was an exploding pain in his head before everything went black.

_Peterborough Telegraph_

Stuart Dakin

(1965-2010)

Stuart Dakin has been unfortunately killed in a car crash, aged just 45

He leaves behind his partner, Tom, and his beloved dogs Woody and Davis.

He wished to be remembered for his success and intelligence, while Tom says he will never forget Stuart’s brilliant modesty.

 

_Ironic,_ Dakin thought as he gritted his teeth, _that Tom’s sitting at home with a crippled leg while I lie here._ He twisted carefully to try reach his phone and call for help. He screamed in pain as he felt his flesh tear, and realised his leg was pinned down between the seat and the dashboard. Trickling blood oozed down his leg, staining his trousers crimson. _Both of us in car accidents_ he thought, holding back tears. _Both legs too. Only difference here is that I’m going to die. I’m going to be Hector._

Agony rampaged through his ribs, lacerations lacing his chest in beautifully decorated shapes of pain. He leant back, his breathing shallow and deep. Blood dampened his shirt as his hand flickered across his stomach, and he felt the wound seeping beneath his fingers. Shit. His mind flashed to Tom, sitting alone on the sofa, curled up with a glass of wine, waiting for Stuart to arrive.

He was disappointed. Stuart arrived home dead.

 

 

 

_The Craven Herald_

Pete Rudge

(1965-2033)

Local builder Pete Rudge has passed away after a sudden heart attack at the age of 68.

He leaves behind his wife Joanne and four children, John, James, David and Dorothy.

He will be remembered as the loyal, loving man he was, and the great friend he was to many around the village.

 

Rudge shifted uncomfortably in his seat, clutching his wife’s hand.

“Are you alright, dear?”  she whispered, frowning.

He nodded, grimacing to ignore the burn searing across his chest. Sweat dripped from his brow. He breathed deeply, evening out the pain. He coughed painfully, the pain spreading to his arms and legs, rushing through his blood. His mouth felt as if it was stuffed full of cotton balls as the world swirled around him. A strange light-headedness settled around him. Nausea fought it’s way up his throat as he hacked away, groaning. He realised he was sliding down his seat, the floor rushing up to greet him. His last thought was glancing up at Joanne’s horrified face as he hit the ground.

 

_The Keighley News_

Adil Akhtar

(1965 – 2041)

A much-loved community member has passed this week aged 76.

Keighley Headmaster Adil Akhtar died after a long battle against cancer this week, surrounded by his family.

He will be remembered by his family and friends, and the hundreds of grateful students he taught through his 50 year career.

His family ask for donations to be made to St Leonard’s Hospice in his memory.

 

Akhtar smiled up at his wife as he clasped her hand tightly. His mind felt foggy and blurry, his body set to a backdrop of throbbing pain and a dull ache. The cool, crisp sheets slinked across his gaunt, thin body as he lay motionless on the body. Hot tears welled in his eyes as his family smiled sadly back at him. His breaths were ragged and deep, each new gasp a fight for his life. He let his arm fall limply by his side and smiled serenely as he closed his eyes, letting himself slip away.

 

 

 

_Oxford Journal_

 

Christopher Crowther

(1965-2043)

Supreme Court Magistrate Christopher Crowther has died of a stroke at the age of 78.

He will be remembered as a philosophical soul with a great passion for loyalty and courage.

He is outlived by his partner Rose and their three cats.

“The faintest of all human passions is love of truth,” – A.E Housman.

 

Crowther died on his sofa. Nothing remarkable. A simple stroke, fading away at the last minute of the hour.

He stood up from his seat at the dining table and stumbled to the side as dizziness floated over him. He stumbled over to the sofa, lethargic and tired all of a sudden. The left side of his body started to seize up as he collapsed, slurring his words as he tried to call for help. His brain exploded with agony, blinding pain blurring his entire vision. A fog of confusion settled over his head as he lay there. He tried to swallow but couldn’t and he became embarrassingly aware of himself drooling down his sloping face. Rose ran over and grabbed his arm, shaking him to try snap him out of it. He stared into her eyes, trying to smile as he slid into the darkness.

 

_BBC News_

Thomas Irwin

(1960 – 2045)

TV Historian Thomas Irwin has passed away at the age of 85

Irwin, who was famous for his explorations on the private scandals of royalty, passed away in a care home with one of his closest friends by his side.

He will be remembered as a close companion of many historians, and as a shocking revelationist with a flair for the surprise.

 

Irwin stared at Scripps as he held his hand.

“When is Stuart coming?”

Scripps smiled sadly.

“He’ll be along soon, Tom. Don’t worry,”

Irwin glared at him accusingly before letting his gaze drift away to float around the ward. He stopped by the door, his eyes glossing slightly.

“There he is,” he smiled, trying to point and growing increasingly irritated as he failed to do so.

Scripps smiled back, stroking his hand. His eyes masked a sadness that Irwin couldn’t see through his haze of confusion.

“Is he coming over, Tom?” he whispered calmly.

Irwin frowned and closed his eyes. He opened his mouth to say something and stopped, letting his mouth hang open. Scripps chucked his chin up to close it.

“You’ll catch flies like that,”

“What flies?” Tom muttered, furrowing his brow.

His gaunt hand slipped out of Scripps’, falling down to his thin body under the sheet. He smiled dreamily as he closed his eyes, letting Scripps pat his shoulder as he faded into nothingness.

 

_BBC News_

Donald Scripps

(1965 – 2051)

Famous writer and journalist Donald Scripps died peacefully in his sleep last night, his publicist has announced.

Scripps will be remembered through his legacy of inspiring young writers and his charity work.

His writing was some of the most popular of our time, and he will remain a national treasure for years after his death.

His will bequeaths his entire fortune to the David Posner Suicide Prevention Trust, the charity he created after his partner’s untimely death at the age of 29. His only remaining family, his sister, asks for any sympathies to be shown as donations to the charity.

 

Scripps didn’t mean to die on the same day as David. It was one of the world’s twisted little coincidences.

His evening started the same as it did every anniversary. A call from Anna.

“Hey sis,”

“You really need to stop saying that, it’s been a while since it was cool,” a voice crackled down the line.

“You’re 78, since when do you know what’s cool?” he replied sarcastically.

Her voice softened.

“I thought I’d ring as always. Just to let you know that I’m here,”

He sighed sadly, twirling his finger round the phone cord. He still blatantly refused to buy a mobile, despite his publicist’s horrified pleas.

“I know. I’ll be fine. Go to sleep, it’s late,”

She harrumphed down the line and he hung up, smiling grimly.

It’s sweet, he supposed, that she took up Mum’s mantle of checking in on him every anniversary. After the first year, when he’d broken down in the bedroom, unable to move or breathe as his body was wracked with hysterical sobs. He still remembered the desolate, empty feeling. He didn’t remember, in fact, he still felt it every single day, even 57 years later.

Scripps smiled sadly down at the picture of David on the side. He could still remember his voice, soaring through their rooms as he sang melodically. He sat down at the piano, lifting the lid to reveal the yellowing keys below. Still no chips, still perfectly in tune. David always used to say he took more care of that piano than he did himself. Probably true by now. He started to play, listening to the music flow from his fingers, filling the room.

He finished slowly, trailing away to let the notes fade into nothingness.

 

At 11:30pm, Donald Scripps slides on a pair of old, striped pyjamas. He lies down on the bed, lets a single tear roll down his cheek and closes his eyes to go to sleep.

He will not wake up.

**Author's Note:**

> Did you enjoy it? Any kudos or comments are always appreciated. ;)


End file.
